Cut Throat Symphony
by charisma5
Summary: When Spike said he loved Buffy, he did. But it wasn't ''pure'' love; he was evil, perverse. This is what he felt along with the love. Short vignette.


*Cut Throat Symphony*  
  
Summary: When Spike said he loved Buffy, he really did. But there was more to his "pure" love then met the eye. He was evil, perverse. And this is what he really felt, along with the twisted love.  
  
A/n: Hey, guys. It's been awhile since I've written anything, but I'm back. Sorta. Enjoy, and review.  
  
I don't know who the author of this poem is, but I used it cause it fit in beautifully. If anyone knows the author's name, please send it.  
  
+!+!+!+!+!+!+  
  
I can't sleep  
  
The pillow next to mine smells of your hair  
  
The empty impress of your body in the mattress  
  
The print of your lips on the coffee mug  
  
The bleeding incisions you left across my back  
  
The salt smell of your sweat on my flesh  
  
I don't even mind the few strands of hair you left in the sink  
  
Every fingerprint memory you left across this place  
  
It reeks of your perfume,  
  
Lilacs and black licorice smell,  
  
A blessed portrait of us hangs alone against the wall  
  
A crude red X drawn over the place your smile used to show  
  
Sometimes I'm tempted to chew off my lips because they taste of you  
  
Rip off my fingers because they confiscated your sinful innocence  
  
Pull out my heart and nail it to the wall, next to your face  
  
Watch it beat and beat and beat until there's nothing left  
  
You looked so beautiful as I slit your delicate throat  
  
You tasted like drowning.  
  
-Unknown  
  
+!+!+!+!+  
  
Little wisps of gold stray across your bright face as you smile, sharp teeth white and glossy lips the color of crimson blood. You laugh with your pals, the people you accept and love and adore and care for . . . people I'm not a part of.  
  
Mm, how I'd love to rip each and every one of them to shreds. Hear their soft, breathy pants of pain and torment as I break each and every soft bone in their body, slowly, savoring the harsh crunch of bone marrow and tissue. Then I would sip them, languidly, to savor each and every delicate mouthful of potent life. And then I would take you to see their bodies strewn across my crypt floor, caked with dried blood and crusty tissues and the dust that comes from the bottom of my combat boot.  
  
To see that split second of absolute horror and inconsolable pain, that delicious anguish and breath-taking desolation as you realize that everyone you love is dead.  
  
Nothing could ever compare to that elation, that immobilizing ecstasy better then the rush of LSD, or a mind-shattering orgasm. Oh, love, how I would make you scream. Crumpled in a heap on the floor as you cry, forever, too grief-stricken to understand that I love you, and I slaughtered them even as I thought of your pain. Kept in mind that you would never understand the simple, natural rush of human kill.  
  
I feel the urge to lick my chops, figuratively speaking.  
  
The Whelp turns to me, smirk on his pasty face. He looks at me, and I resist the twitch in my fingers that scream for me to strangle him. I feel another joke about the chipped vamp coming on, and I try to grin nastily.  
  
"What are you smiling at Bleach Boy? We were just discussing here the fact all those shocks from the chip are zapping your brain cells. Added on to the seeping of bleach into you skull, we think you might have a melt down anytime now."  
  
And he laughs like the fucking joke is actually funny. Giles gives me that superior grin, and I envision myself ripping off his glasses and shoving them up his arse. Ripping off his limbs roughly as I replace the glasses with my foot.  
  
The others chuckle, even the two Witches, and I give them a patented glare. Buffy just crosses her too-skinny arms and twists a shiny lip, sneering. I roll my eyes.  
  
"Wow Whelp, was that ever mature. That cut me real deep, you insipid snot, I must say." I stand up, flicking the ashes of my burned out fag. Everyone looks suspicious, even the stupid Whelp, because I haven't retaliated like I usually do. Well maybe I've just grown tired of their immaturity, of this puppy love. I'm almost two centuries old. I don't feel the need for lattes and college and all the other things this rag-tag group of people see fit to have.  
  
Buffy snorts. "Well, that was a good one, too, Spike. Running out of usual snarky comments?"  
  
I halt my saunter to the training room, back rigid. I fix her with one of my soul-searching gazes, and her mouth slims into a flat line. I can tell what she's thinking, what she's feeling, what she really wants.  
  
I hate her, but I'm drawn to her. Drawn to her light. She's like a warm ocean, brimming with life and heat. Gentle tide, rough winds. I want to dip my hands into the ocean, feel purity and innocence seep into my dark mind. It's been so long in the dark, and this Slayer offered me a chance to see what's beyond pain and torture.  
  
She doesn't understand that she's above this, them; she's a predator, centuries old in spirit and essence and power. I don't love the girl she is; I love the hunter and murderous killer she is, inside. She doesn't understand that.  
  
So I sit here, waiting for a single drop of affection. I'll never get it, but I'll wait here as I dream of the murders of your friends. Of you, even. Oh, Buffy, how I would kill you. Shackle you to my walls, and pour upon every single sensual torment of sex and pleasure you could even imagine. Make you want it.  
  
Then, in the throes of your passion, cresting over an orgasm, I would slide into your throat, painfully, none of this gentle love bite, my sweetheart, and make you pay for every single anguish you've ever given me. Rough gulps, and you would feel every single last breath. But before you died, before that point of no return, I would look into your eyes, and with an ever so gentle twist, break your pretty little neck.  
  
I grin to myself, playing with my lighter.  
  
But no, of course not, pet. And that's why I'm here. I'm reforming, turning into a semblance of some kind of man. For you? Never. For the knowledge that one day I will have you, whether by force or not. It just makes it all that more savory when you're fooled into the belief that a chipped Spike is no longer dangerous. I'm tempered, not healed.  
  
And you toss back your shiny mane of gold, adjusting the straps of your flimsy blue camisole. I groan internally. I hate you so fucking much. Sometimes so much that I just want you to die quickly, like I did all those years ago when we met. Quick. Painful. Sweet.  
  
And maybe instead of all the poems and sugar you dream of, and even my elaborate plans of your death, I'll just simply slit your delicate throat and watch you die. I bet you taste of drowning.  
  
_fin_ 


End file.
